Phoenix Blackwood's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The storm swallowed Phoenix the moment he left the cottage. He pulled the blanket over his head and squinted for tracks. Faint prints marked the snow, small boots pointing away from the door. He followed them fast, before the wind could wipe them clean. The prints faded within twenty steps. Snow filled each one as he watched. Phoenix crouched and pressed his fingers into the last clear mark. It pointed uphill, toward a ridge he could barely see. He guessed at her path and pushed on. The wind fought him. His guess felt thin, and the white gave him nothing to check it against. He climbed until his legs shook. Then the storm thinned for a breath, and he saw it. A castle of ice rose from the ridge above him. Spires climbed like frozen spears. The walls glowed blue-white, lit from somewhere deep inside. Icicles the size of doors hung from every arch. Phoenix stopped and stared. He had asked in the village about a woman. No one had spoken of this. A line of footprints led straight to the tall doors. These prints were fresh, sharp, not yet buried. Small boots. Her boots. Relief hit him harder than the cold. His guess had been wrong about the ridge, but the tracks had found their own answer. She had come here. He staggered to the doors and pounded. The ice rang under his fist. "I'm from your cottage," he shouted. "You left the fire burning. I'm freezing out here." The wind tore his words away. He pounded again and pressed his ear to the cold surface. A voice came from inside, flat and near. "Go back the way you came." Phoenix laughed, breathless. A voice meant a person. "I can't. My horse ran. I followed your tracks. I only want to know you made it." He waited. No footsteps. No lock turning. "You followed me into a storm," the voice said. "That was foolish. Men who chase me always think they're brave." So she knew what he was. Word had reached her before he had. Phoenix leaned his shoulder against the door and grinned, though she could not see it. "I'm not chasing you. I'm surviving. There's a difference tonight." The door did not open. But a smaller panel slid back at eye height. Two dark eyes studied him through the gap. They did not soften. They measured him like a problem to solve. "You'll die out there," she said. "I know." The panel stayed open a long moment. Then it slid shut. Phoenix heard a heavy bar lift on the other side. The great doors groaned inward, just wide enough for a man. Warm blue light spilled onto the snow. He had found her. She had let him in. And she had already told him, in five short words, that his smile would earn him nothing here.